"Why should you not tell me what all the world is free to know?" he continued. "What difference does it make?"
"You are right; it makes no difference," she answered, seating herself, and taking up the fan again. "It is of no especial consequence. No, I am not married, Mr. Heathcote. Angélique is the name of my little sister Tita, of whom you have heard me speak; we first called her Petite, then Tita. Mr. Pronando and Tita are married."
"The same Pronando to whom you were engaged?"
"Yes. He is—"
"Oh, I do not care to hear anything about him. Give me your hand, Anne. Take off that ring."
"No; it was a present from my pupils," she said, drawing back with a smile, but at the same time an inward sigh of relief that the disclosure was over. "They—"
"If you knew what I suffered when I read that notice!" pursued Heathcote, without heeding her. "The world seemed all wrong then forever. For there was something about you, Anne, which brought out what small good there was in my worthless self, and young as you were, you yet in one way ruled me. I might have borne the separation itself, but the thought that any other man should call you wife was intolerable to me. I had—I still have it—a peculiar feeling about you. In some mysterious way you had come to be the one real faith of my life. I was bitterly hurt and angry when you ran away from me; but angry as I was, I still searched for you, and would have searched again if Helen had not—But never mind that now. If I have loved you, Anne, you have loved me just as dearly. And now you are here, and I am here, let us ask no more questions, but just—be happy."
"But," said the girl, breathlessly, "Helen—?" Then she stopped.
Heathcote was watching her. She tried to be calm, but her lips trembled. A little skill in deception now, poor Anne, would have been of saving help. Heathcote still watched her in silence—watched her until at last she turned toward him.